


Where the Heart Is

by aniss



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Homelessness, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-18
Updated: 2014-08-05
Packaged: 2018-02-05 05:23:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1806823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aniss/pseuds/aniss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No one could ever say being homeless was easy, but adding the rigors of college life on top of it complicates things even more. This is Jean Kirschstein's new normal after an argument with his mother ends in him being kicked out of the house. </p><p>He struggles to keep his homelessness a secret from both his friends and professors while he adjusts to life in a men's shelter. His troubles only escalate when a certain freckled face begins to blur the distinct line Jean has drawn between his home and college life...</p><p>Based off a prompt from JeanMarcoAUs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I recently saw a prompt on JeanMarcoAUs that caught my eye and it hasn’t gotten out of my head since. The prompt was: _“AU where Jean becomes homeless after being kicked out of home and Marco does volunteering at the local shelter and they meet one rainy night just as Marco is about to go home and he sees Jean scowling at the front doors and invites him in.”_
> 
> The need to write was escalated after reading some other homeless AUs on here ([these](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1139320/) [two](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1709372) are my personal favorites) and I just had to put the words down on paper. I’m sure some of you understand the feeling.
> 
> I hope I can do it justice!
> 
> (8/1/14 - Changed to past-tense + some minor edits)

It wasn’t Jean’s fault he had arrived too late to claim a bed at the local mission. The blame fell entirely on the bus that stalled right after picking him up, and on the shoulders of the crazy church lady who had to be forcibly removed from the replacement bus because of her inane religious ramblings. It could be blamed on everyone and everything but himself. He was sure he could even blame the trees for it…somehow.

The blonde was fuming even more than usual by the time he reached the shelter, mentally cursing every deity he remembered from the World Religion class he took the semester before. The entire event was his mother’s idea of a lesson—a quick demonstration on the dangers of daring to choose to work at a store that would eventually close. Because it was all his fucking fault, right? It was like she believed his actions singlehandedly caused the town’s recession.

His grip tightened on his large duffel as he dragged it up the wheelchair ramp, pausing every few seconds to shake the kinks out of his wrist. It wasn't that he was weak; it was just that it wasn’t everyday he had to carry around all his textbooks, art supplies and a week’s worth of clothing at once. His desire to not wimp out on his mother’s dishing of tough love grew with each step he took. He was going to show her and defy low expectations. He was going to be the best damn hobo the world would ever see.

That is…if he could get a bed.

“Shit. Shit. Shit.” The curse rolled easily off his tongue as he glared at a flimsy-looking sign on the chipped double-doors declaring the building closed to new ‘residents’ after 8PM. And of course one look at his phone told him it was 8:15. Of fucking course. He was going to curse out that old broad if he caught her on the bus again.

He nearly considered calling his mother , but immediately decided against it, not wanting to give her the smug sense of satisfaction of knowing her deadbeat son couldn't cut it in the real world and had to come crying back home to Mommy. He could see her, dark eyes gleaming, taut skin stretched to the limit as she gave him her trademark Botox smirk.

He did not even give thought to calling his best friend. He was sure Eren could come up with some great horse-related puns in reference to his current situation. Jean simply wasn’t in the mood for that.

He thanked his lucky stars that he had the foresight to bring a blanket and pillow in his duffel. The ten minute struggle to stuff the items on top of everything else and zip the container suddenly seemed worth it. It was fairly chilly for mid-September, but he knew he could handle the cold for one night. And if he couldn't, his death would be the greatest ‘fuck you’ on record to both his mother and the stupid shelter workers who came up with the building’s dumb rules. He could picture everything; a group of bums would be placing flowers on his popsicle corpse while his mother smoked and whined about not being able to afford his burial, and how she'd probably have to place his body in her deep freezer—

“Can I help you?” It took a few seconds for his ears to register the soft voice calling out to him. The double doors were slightly ajar and a head was poking out from the small opening.

“I uh…” Jean’s tongue refused to cooperate as he gestured lamely from his duffel to the doors, hoping the other person, a brunette with a constellation’s worth of freckles lining his cheeks and button nose, would understand. The sunny smile—far too bright for such a depressing place—that lit up the guy’s doe-like brown eyes said he did.

“Come with me.”

Jean tried not to stare as the other man casually slung Jean’s duffel over his shoulder as if it were a piece of toilet paper. The man was obviously superhuman, but Jean guessed he should have known the guy was strong by the way he was nearly bursting out of his well-worn Jinae Warrior Eagles tee. A closer inspection of the shirt revealed it was a senior tee from a few years back and it also showed the man’s name, printed somewhat lopsidedly in bold lettering on the back above a wonky-looking depiction of an eagle with Spartan headgear.

“Marco,” The man turned and _beamed_ at the mention of his name, causing Jean’s heart to pitter-patter like a lovesick teen who had just discovered his crush looking his way. “Thanks for letting me in. I appreciate it.”

“Don’t mention it.” Marco almost tiptoed through the building’s lobby and dimly-lit hallway, only stopping when he reached another set of double doors. His broad fingers touched the worn-looking handle before he paused again and gingerly placed Jean’s bag on the ground next to him.

“I can’t do this every night,” He said as he looked back at Jean, voice taking on an oddly morose quality that didn't suit him. “The man who runs this mission is a bit of a—“

“Hardass?” Marco stifled a giggle behind his right hand before speaking again.

“I guess you can say that. He means well, it’s just that he’s ah—a stickler for the rules.”

“I get it.”

“Good.” The megawatt smile returned again and Jean swore he could hear angels singing in the background somewhere, their melodious voices bouncing off the worn walls.

 

\-------

The main hall of the shelter was as depressing as Jean imagined it to be, if not more so. Rows upon rows of well-worn cots—all obviously military surplus—were placed all through the room, mostly occupied by the kind of men Jean usually steered clear of when he encountered them on the street. He felt like a freshman on the first day at a university, completely unprepared for the rigors of college life, only this time the campus was replaced by a dingy shelter, and the upperclassmen were probably all either shell-shocked war vets or old drunks who were simply down on their luck. The smell of days old urine and body odor wafted throughout the room, combining to form some unholy abomination that had Jean scrambling to cover his nose with both hands.

He eventually garnered enough courage to wander through the rows of cots until he found the one Marco had placed his duffel under, a rather puny-looking one tucked in the corner next to what looked like a standalone buffet island. The stained army-green canvas sagged from what looked like decades of use, and Jean knew he would have a hard time getting any sleep on something so obviously unsuited for human habitation. The rusted metal frame creaked as he sat on it and almost tipped over as he swung a leg over, causing him to instinctively hold his arms out to break what seemed like an inevitable tumble. The frame eventually settled without major incident and he breathed a sigh a relief.

He observed Marco emerge from what seemed to be a set of offices tucked in a hallway directly across from the lobby with a large blonde man in tow. The two seemed to be engaged in a terse conversation and the towering giant obviously had the upper hand judging entirely by the way Marco’s shoulders were slumped, brown eyes are downcast. Even his freckles looked less prominent on his tanned face. Jean’s body instinctively shrunk into the worn cot when the blonde looked directly at him, piercing blue eyes almost like tiny lasers.

Shit. He dug into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone, fingertips mechanically ghosting over the screen as he dialed his mother’s number, sighing over the amount of grovelling he would have to do to make her take him back in. He barely had time to end the call after noticing that the blonde's gaze had softened and his caterpillar brows were no longer furrowed after Marco leaned forward and said something in the man’s ear. The giant then shrugged and walked back into the hallway without saying another word.

Jean only allowed himself to relax when Marco smiled and gave him a thumbs up. He slumped into the cot with a dramatic sigh, not even bothered over the smell of stale cigarettes that hit his nose after doing so. He could already tell life in the mission wouldn't be a cakewalk, but he would be able to handle it. He was on the side of the angels, after all.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm SO sorry for the wait between this chapter and the last. One week turned into nearly two months and aaaaah--there's really no excuse.
> 
> I'd like to thank everyone for the comments, kudos, subscriptions, and bookmarks. You guys are the best! 
> 
> I've updated the first chapter and changed it to past tense + edited it a bit. I'm almost embarrassed to have posted it its previous condition. Yeesh. But enough from me...I hope this next chapter was worth the wait. :)

It took a few seconds for Jean to recognize his surroundings when he awoke from a semi-fitful sleep, bleary eyes adjusting to the blinding fluorescent lights beaming down on the entire room. The vast sea of still bodies covered by uniform white sheets seemed foreign to him, almost as if he were resting in a morgue after some great disaster. It was almost easy for him to believe his thoughts were true if it were not for the dull pain radiating through the small of his back, the ache more than enough of a reminder that he was still in the mortal realm. 

Jean slipped into his sneakers and eased his duffle from under the cot. He tugged it by its short handle as he crept down the aisle, trying to make as little noise as possible. He knew how grumpy he could get when his sleep was interrupted and didn’t want to think much about what one of the other men would do. Getting pelted by empty beer bottles and coffee cans half-filled with change by guys who smelled like stale liquor was not on his agenda. 

He managed to make it to the end of the aisle before the inevitable happened. His heart threatened to leap out of his chest when the edge of the duffel bumped into the frame of one of the cots to his right, causing the guy sleeping on it, a reedy giant of a man with a messy crop of dark brown hair, to crack one green eye open. Jean whispered an apology as he yanked his bag around the obstruction and down the rest of the aisle with vigor he never thought he’d be able to muster in a million years, puny muscles working overtime in an effort to protect him from what seemed like an inevitable confrontation. He peered back at the other man when he reached the corner of the room and let out a sigh of relief when he noticed the guy was apparently asleep again. Crisis averted. 

The hallway between the main room and the lobby seemed especially desolate as Jean walked through it, sneakers squeaking on the polished linoleum. The surroundings were still the same—all sterile white walls and grey floors, surprisingly spotless given what the building was used for. Jean stood in the middle of the hall and looked around. There was something missing, a vital piece of the puzzle. It wasn’t until he focused on the only non-pristine item in the area, a brass door handle speckled with flecks of tawny rust, that he figured it out.

Marco. It was missing Marco.

The freckled bastard had made the entire building seem homier with his cheerful personality. He had only spent a few minutes with the man, but it was more than enough time to see that the brunette was probably a vital part in keeping the residents happy. Without him, the place seemed empty. Hollow. Somewhere he didn’t want to be for long. 

Jean’s biceps ached as he pulled open the double doors and stepped into the lobby, grimacing as the overpowering odor of pine-scented disinfectant assaulted his nostrils. 

“Leaving so soon?”

Jean’s shoulders slumped as Mr. Hardass-in-Chief appeared next to him, towering over Jean in both height and presence. The man looked different up close. His caterpillar brows were more like thick sideways commas, impeccably manicured for a man his age. The tidiness extended to his hay-colored hair, neatly trimmed and shellacked to his scalp, and down to his well-pressed khakis and white button-down. The blonde pulled off a pair of yellow latex gloves and pushed a large bucket of dirty water to the side before extending his left hand, presumably for a handshake, and only pulled away after Jean did not respond. 

“I was hoping to speak with you, Mister-” He drew out the last syllable for a few seconds, a small smile forming on his lips.

“Jean,” Jean slid into one of the chairs lining the cinderblock walls, flinching as the chilled plastic made contact with an exposed sliver of skin between his thermal top and jeans. “None of that ‘Mister’ shit. Just…Jean.”

Hardass pulled up a chair and sat down across from Jean, posture ramrod straight. 

“I’m Erwin Smith—director of this mission. I’m afraid I am going to have to ask you to stay to complete the intake process. That is,” He paused for half a second before continuing, cornflower eyes narrowing a tad. “-If you plan to stay here on a more regular basis.”

“Can’t this wait ‘til later?” Jean glanced at the clock, then back at the director as he toed a portion of peeling linoleum with his sneaker. His voice had taken on an abrasive quality, far more than what was warranted for the situation, and he relaxed his arms in a gesture he hoped would look more appeasing. 

“Do you have somewhere to be?”

“Yeah. Somewhere important.” His first class did not start for nearly five hours, but Hardass didn’t have to know that. The man didn’t have to know anything. All Jean knew was that he had to get out of there. He felt like he was out of his element, completely lost in a dense jungle with foreign natives who spoke in a strange tongue. The need to just get away, to go somewhere with normal people who led normal lives was overpowering.

Jean noted the way Hardass’ brows had furrowed more and realized how shifty his response must have sounded.

“It’s not drugs or nothing. Just…something.” Real smooth. If the blonde didn’t think he was a common thug or junkie looking forward to finding his next high, he did then. Jean figured he would eventually have to tell the director about his college classes, but didn’t feel like divulging that tidbit of information to a complete stranger.

“I’ve already made an exception. Clients usually complete the admission process before claiming a bed.” Hardass’ posture slumped as he pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “But I guess I can make another. I expect to see you here— _before_ 8 o’clock. No exceptions.”

Jean didn’t know whether to try to shake Hardass’ hand, salute him, or tip an imaginary cowboy hat in his direction because of that stupid bolo tie hanging under his starched collar. He eventually settled for muttering a simple ‘Thanks’ before lifting his duffel in a rare show of strength and hobbling out the double doors. 

\-----

There was a time where Jean would have balked at the idea of using the showers in the men’s locker room at his college. The threat of contracting athlete’s foot and Heaven-only-knew what from the brown gunk growing in the discolored grout was a bit too palatable, especially since the sweaty gym rats and sports players did not use them either, opting to either wash up in the sinks or douse themselves in baby powder and cheap body spray instead. 

This was a new day.

The sputtering flow of tepid water did its job well enough as he felt layers of grime run off his body and down the drain with the soapy remnants of his body wash. He wished it could also eradicate the feeling of inadequacy and uselessness that had begun to plague his mind, leeching into his brain matter and poisoning it with its filth. But that was impossible; the shower was just a glorified container with running water and not a damn psychiatrist.

The feeling only intensified as he dried off. Jean pulled the school-provided towel across his chest, reddening the sensitive skin near his collarbones. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

All the bravado he had been feeling before had faded a while ago, roughly around the time the director—he had said his name was _Irving_ or _Edwin_ or something equally old-fashioned—had given him a look right before he gave Jean an ultimatum, one where his thin lips had pursed to the point where they nearly disappeared into his mouth, and his eyes had narrowed to tiny slits. 

He knew that look well. His mother had given him a similar one when she told him pack his things and leave—it was one filled with disappointment. He didn’t understand why someone like the director had already grown disillusioned with him; it wasn’t like he and Hardass were familiar with one another. Perhaps the blonde had seen something in him, an element of potential he could not see in himself. Whatever.

Jean checked his phone for missed calls after he had slipped into his clothing and was slightly disappointed to find there were none. He had expected his mother to cave long before, to come begging for her darling boy—her little _Jean-Bo_ —to come back home, and for things to go back to the way they were before so he could try, make an honest-to-God attempt to make things better—

Jean shoved the phone deep in the recesses of his duffel before he pulled the bag out of the locker room, blinking rapidly to rid himself of the niggling feeling of wetness around his eyelids. Stupid allergies. 

\-----

“You look like shit.” Jean burrowed his face deep into the crook of his arms at the sound of Eren’s voice and only sat up when he heard the familiar squeaking of vinyl meeting cheap leather as the brunette slid into the booth seat across from him. The guy could never take a fucking hint.

“And what’s with the bag?” Eren pointed to the duffel tucked under the table. “The equestrian team’s got an away game?”

Jean didn’t even want to dignify Eren’s ignorant remark with a response, but knew the brunette would grow suspicious if he didn’t. He didn’t take his time to cultivate a proper retort and said the first thing that came to mind.

“It’s what I packed for my weekend in _Mi Casa_.”

It was the weakest fucking comeback on the planet and Jean knew it, and judging by the way one of Eren’s eyebrows was raised, he felt the same way.

“That’s the best you can do, John-Boy?”

Jean scoffed as he picked a piece of lint off his worn hoodie and flicked it towards his friend, trying not to twitch over Eren’s deliberate butchering of his name. 

“Like you can talk. Another horse joke? Really, Eren?’

“Who pissed in your sugar cubes?” A grin lit up Eren’s face as he chuckled at his own terrible joke. “You didn’t even call me Aaron.”

“Excuse me for breaking tradition.” Jean softly added ‘Aaron’ after a small pause, hoping to squash the brunette’s line of inquiry. It didn’t.

“No, really. You alright?” Eren folded his arms and stared at Jean through his bushy and overgrown bangs, green eyes questioning. “Everything okay at home?”

Jean’s muscles tensed a bit as he tried to force himself to not visibly react to Eren’s question. It was like his friend could see through him at this point, past the faded hoodie and band tee, and right into his quivering heart. And if an idiot like Eren could hit the proverbial nail on the head, Jean was sure Armin, the resident armchair psychiatrist of his social circle, would have him connecting his emotional issues to some nearly forgotten childhood trauma or some equally sappy shit.

“It’s nothing.” Jean finally said after a prolonged silence, internally wincing at both the time it took him to respond and how he basically revealed everything was not okay with such a noncommittal answer. He turned away from Eren and stared across the food court, idly watching students begin to trickle into the food court and make a beeline for the coffee bar.

Eren, probably for the first time in his life, didn’t prod incessantly for more information, but Jean still felt the brunette’s eyes trained on him. Jean felt terrible for purposely keeping Eren in the dark about what was going on, especially when he knew the brunette would insist he bunk up with him and Armin in their cramped studio for as long as needed. And as enticing as sleeping in a place not filed with smelly strangers sounded, he just couldn’t do it. It would be pathetic to whine about his mommy issues to a guy with no living parents, someone who would probably give anything just to hear their voices again, even if they were complaining about his inability to keep a job or general uselessness. Jean kicked the base of the table as he steeled himself, pushing the negative thoughts deep in his gut so he could at least attempt to pretend they weren’t there. 

“I’ll get us some coffee.” He managed to choke out as he dug into his wallet and pulled out a few bills, almost dropping the money on the table as he stood up and moved away from the booth. He could tell Eren knew he was purposely trying to change the subject, but the brunette did not say anything, only nodding instead. Jean knew he could never turn down free stuff.

The line of students waiting to be served at the recently-opened coffee bar had grown long, wrapping around the large cluster of tables crowded in the middle of the room and almost down to the hallway joining the food court to the student union building. Jean did not mind the wait. It allowed him to collect his thoughts and prepare for facing the day ahead. His classes, four in all, were not challenging, but he was only beginning to comprehend how he would be able to juggle the work in them while knowing he had no permanent place to go after classes were over. 

He knew only one thing; he could not allow anyone else, friend or stranger, to learn about his troubles. He had inadvertently let two people in and it was already causing problems he did not know how to deal with. It was easier to hide behind a disguise of confidence and pretend everything was fine, that he wasn’t in for the challenge of his life dealing with the bullshit of both college and the numerous restrictions he was sure Hardass had in mind for him. The definite line in the sand had been drawn and he did not have any tolerance for anyone trying to blur it.

The line moved quickly and Jean was eventually able to get a good look at a few of the workers fluttering around the shop in their dark blue aprons. He recognized a couple of faces—like Christa from College Algebra and Ymir from his Comp class last semester. There was another employee Jean couldn’t see, one who was taking customer orders up front. He stood on his toes and craned his neck to see if it was someone he knew, hoping to get some type of discount on the beverages. Offering to pay for drinks wasn’t his smartest idea, especially since his funds were running low and borrowing money from his mother was no longer an option, but it was the first excuse he came up with to get out from under Eren’s interrogating gaze. 

The voice of the cashier was oddly familiar to him, warm and honeyed in a way that seemed quite natural. It wasn’t until Jean was close enough to be able to lean on the sticky surface of the counter and look around the large coffee machines that he was able to see who was manning the cash register, and the identity of the mystery cashier threatened to blow gale-force winds over the fresh line he had drawn, leaving it indiscernible to the naked eye.

“Marco?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Here's my [tumblr](http://healthysickbastard.tumblr.com/) if you'd like to leave me a message or anything. It's pretty empty at the moment, but I do plan to start posting things related to the story + other story ideas I'm working with.
> 
> I'm also sorry for uh...turning this into a mini angst fest. I promise it won't get too angsty, but the subject matter kind of warrants it.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are loved.


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